Skin Deep
by the monochromatic
Summary: Romano's accidental foray into Prussian history via one-night-stand. Tattoo kink and yaoi within. You've been notified.


_Skin Deep_

Candlelight sputters as wicks burn low, casting strange, exaggerated shadows at random on the walls. Otherwise, the room is dark: the curtains pulled shut, the lights all doused and not even a fleeting glimpse of moonlight through a gap in the drapes. Outside, the world is black, shrouded in storm clouds and night.

Still, there's enough light to reflect in those prying, brown eyes. "This one," he says reverently, and Gilbert's skin tightens as fingertips trace the familiar thin and wiry script. "_S-stöcke und Steine_..." he struggles with the tiny, foreign letters. It probably doesn't help, Gilbert thinks, that it's in cursive. "_Stöcke und Steine...k-können meine_..." he tries again, squinting at the barbed wire wrapped around Gilbert's left bicep. His accent mangles the German language, making Gilbert cringe.

He shushes Lovino with one of his slender hands over that filthy mouth, smirking at the way indignant eyes narrow. "_Stöcke und Steine können meine Knochen brechen_," he sing-songs, "_aber die Wände und Draht wird bröckeln_."

Though he can't understand the words, Lovino's ears immediately register the tune. He arches an eyebrow. "Words can never hurt you?" he asks, "I don't get it."

"That's not what it says," he chuckles, scarlet eyes aglow. He notices Lovino's wince, how he has trouble looking Gilbert in the eyes. He wonders if that lump in the kid's throat is nausea. "It says, 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but walls and wire will crumble.'" He waits for a reaction. Nothing appears to be forthcoming.

Lovino's eyes – stolid pools of amber – drift back to the the tattoo. He studies it, touches it. He puts his mouth on it, licking it, feeling the grain of muscle under his tongue. A choked grunt wedges itself in Gilbert's throat and he coughs. It never dislodges, only dissipates into the walls of his trachea.

Lovino nuzzles his arm, inhaling his very harsh, very _male_ scent. All musk and sweat and bitter salt. Then, he says something that comes as a shock. "Nineteen-eighty-nine."

Gilbert chortles, a low, almost sinister note. "Essentially," he says, appreciating the thought. One day in particular stands out for him: November tenth of that year – a Friday, if memory serves. Clusters of people milled around on either side of the Wall, perched atop it, even. He'd been there too, his own hoarse voice wafting on the sweet breath of autumn as he watched from his place between the columns of the Brandenburg Gate. Those great columns...they'd lent him a kind of stony, distant embrace – a place of refuge in nostalgia. _Better times_, he thinks, reminiscing on that moment of glory.

And speaking of glorious moments...

Lovino has turned his attention away from the tattoo, kissing a shoulder, forging a path across Gilbert's pallid chest. Somewhere in the room, a candle gutters out with a quiet spit. Chapped lips pepper along his collarbone, winding a path to the craggy ledge of his other shoulder. And there, hidden on the sensitive skin of his triceps, there is a small, black _Tatzenkreuz_. Lovino stares at it for a while, making Gilbert uneasy. That one is especially conflicting for him, ever teetering on the brink between pride and regret.

"An Iron Cross?" he asks, puzzled.

It would seem that fate has gifted him with pride, this evening. "And well-deserved," he says, letting the usual assumptions ride. He's in no mood to discuss white mantles or Rimini or anything remotely related to _that_ part of his life. Better to be thought a hero of war than a long-suffering hypocrite, full of desires repressed behind a sharp, demanding tongue... Gilbert shivers, disgusted with himself.

It's tough to stay that way though, when those lips begin an assault on his neck, charging his Adam's apple, tongue sweeping over his carotid artery before nipping a heart-shaped bruise against the pale canvas of his skin. He's tortured for a while, and he loves it. Hard, imperfect teeth grind and suck at tender, damp flesh. His navel is lavished with sweet licks and playful bites, dark laughter caressing him like a mild, summer breeze. His cock – half-hard, _again_ – brushes against a soft, flat stomach; Lovino rests on Gilbert, enjoying the rocky outcrop of his abdomen under a cheek, the way a vein along his thigh twitches with anticipation.

Gilbert can be hasty, but he likes that about him.

He walks his fingers along one of Gilbert's ragged, square hips: slim-cut, not at all like Ludwig. He only briefly glimpsed the younger German, as he was pulled by the hand through the kitchen; a clumsy, awkward run-in earlier in the hall, when he'd tiptoed to the bathroom. Their grudge sustained a ceasefire, for the night.

"Mmmmm." Gilbert groans overhead, fingers ensnaring themselves in his thick mess of hair. He tugs demandingly and says, "How about a blow job?" He's grinning manically through the dark, white eyebrows cocked just so.

"You've already had three," Lovino blushes, glad for Gilbert's bad eyesight.

Gilbert shrugs. "C'_mon_," he wheedles, voice raspy and nagging. It's comfortable though, like a well-worn blanket in the middle of winter.

Not much else need be said; Gilbert in and of himself is persuasion enough. Lovino licks his cock, slow and sure, pressing firmly with his tongue. There's not much preamble, as the last of his patience disintegrated earlier in the night, leaving him feeling like a puddle. A sheen of sweat coats the back of his neck, clinging to his forehead, pasting his bangs there while he works. His jaw is sore and his neck complains of a dull ache, but he's still enjoying himself – enjoying _Gilbert_. Chills run rampant through his skin, raising goosebumps and peach fuzz when Gil moans, loudly, obscenely – a string of nonsense and garbled German profanity, and a few incoherent encouragements.

Meanwhile, Gilbert is cosseted in a world of bliss. He pushes Lovino's head down, forcing him onto his cock, regardless. He fills that infamous mouth and further chaps his lips, slicking himself on a warm, wet tongue. The time for foreplay has long since passed and he's content to lose himself in raw heat and selfish desire. And he knows it's okay, that Lovino can't – or won't – say 'no.'

But then, he says something much, much worse. "What're these?"

He almost tells him to shut up, but restrains himself in a rare moment of good sense. His head is spinning and _damn it_, he was just about to cum, but glancing down, he sees those eyes are darting – literally – between his legs, left and right repeatedly, confused. Gilbert knows what he's looking at. He knows Lovino is suspicious, glancing at the tiny bull and the delicate rose that decorate his left and right thighs respectively.

"A testament," he manages, croaking impatiently, "to friends." For a moment, his mind races to the black eagle, branded on the insides of Antonio's and Francis' thighs as well. It's sort of a joke, but also sort of not. He knows – as do they, he's sure – that in the event of the dissolution catching up with him, at least this way they'll have some permanent memory, something tangible and always nearby.

And then he is returned to mindless euphoria, his cock enveloped in wet heat as he's taken the whole way – a thoughtful treat which he greatly appreciates. Balling his fists against the rumpled sheets, he bucks into Lovino's mouth, trying to force his way impossibly deeper. As a warrior, Gilbert has always pushed limits, tested boundaries, and for him, war and sex are inextricably entwined. In ways, Lovino is easy prey, and it's nice to catch a break for once in his long life. But then, he will ask him things or tell him things that pose a challenge, one way or the other. He's certainly not the brightest crayon in the box – not by a long-shot – but that's what catches Gilbert unawares. He never expects to be challenged by someone unintentionally. He's always on the alert for an argument, but not for pure, unadulterated curiosity.

Lovino's tongue shifts over a secret, sensitive spot and Gilbert groans, smacking his head on an iron bar, teeth gritting at the pain and pleasure in tandem. His fingers claw randomly at the mattress, groping for anything to hold onto, anything to anchor him down, lest he lose consciousness. And it's that wet softness that just drives him crazy, coaxing that tangled, knotted ball in his stomach to come undone. It unravels slowly though, refusing to be forced, paining him, as good as it feels.

And yet, it's as if Lovino's studied a map. And _that_ makes Gilbert laugh.

"The fuck are you laughing about, bastard?" Lovino is glaring at him, eyes darkened to a burnt shade of espresso, framed between thick lashes. Even when he's scowling, Gilbert thinks, his eyes are nicely set. But that _mouth_ – that dirty, Italian mouth! Right now, it's all red and swollen: soft, tempting lips in stark contrast with the coarse words they coddle.

"It's nothing, Lovi," Gilbert says, and makes to urge Lovino's head southward but gets his hand smacked away painfully. "Ouch!" he yelps, more surprised than hurt.

"Don't you fucking call me that," Lovino growls, and this time, his voice smolders with genuine rage. "You're not allowed to call me that."

Gilbert knows when to take a hint. For a brief moment, his thoughts go to Antonio, and he wonders if this will mean anything between them. _Probably not_, he thinks, recalling just how many lovers they've had in common. Though, this one would certainly make an important exception. _Then again..._ he thinks, persuading one of his hands into Lovino's hair, teasing and petting and pushing him forward, encouraging. "_Italy_," he tries, voice dripping with cloying kindness. This, he knows, is Lovino's weakness. "_Italy Romano_."

Lovino shifts his eyes, blush rising obviously in his cheeks, warming the bridge of his nose. "Bastard," he mumbles lamely before pressing his lips against the hot, smooth skin of Gilbert's cock. He kisses generously up and down the shaft, sometimes with his tongue, and sometimes with only his dry lips. Then he slides his mouth over all of Gilbert, eyes closed almost peacefully, as if this is the one thing he feels at ease doing.

And it occurs to Gilbert that he's been meaning to ask Antonio just how he distracted Lovino during those scary summer storms, all those years ago.

The silence is then saturated with the obscene noises Lovino's mouth makes while he devours Gilbert, gorging himself on the tangy sweetness of precum, the salty tartness of tight, aroused skin. "Fuck," he manages between sucks, "fuck, you taste so fucking _good_. _V__oglio solo mangiarti__, bastardo_."

And Gilbert does not care that the Italian won't quite translate for him right now, because he's just enjoying the way Lovino's tongue strokes his balls, sweeping back and forth before his lips wrap firmly around his dick and then he's not just sucking, he's _swallowing_ and _oh God_... Gilbert's cumming, hard and hot and thick in Lovino's mouth, holding him down, mercilessly yanking that rogue curl so that he'll moan around him as he's forced to swallow as much as possible. It's only when Gilbert goes boneless with his (fifth? sixth?) orgasm of the evening that Lovino can pull himself away, wiping his mouth, irate. Yet he watches the last of Gilbert's orgasm – just a few, weak spurts that dribble onto his stomach – with a lecherous sort of interest, intense and admiring.

When Gilbert's teeth and tongue agree to work together, he asks, numbly, "Want me to do you?" He can't really decide which answer he wants to hear more: on the one hand, he's never been much for sucking dick, but on the other hand, there's just something about the way Lovino strokes his face, the way he mutters what sounds like sweet Italian obscenities in quick succession that abates all of Gilbert's misgivings.

"Nnng," Lovino growls through his teeth; it looks like he's licking cum off the back of his molars. "Maybe. No, actually, turn over."

"Huh?" Bleary-eyed, Gilbert stares at him, dumbfounded.

"I said turn over, you idiot, so I can fuck you."

"Oh." He ought to be at least disgruntled at being addressed as 'idiot' but he doesn't have the mettle right now. Still riding the last waves of what might be distant aftershocks, Gilbert compliantly turns onto his stomach. Stupidly, he's not prepared for what comes next.

A shocked, quiet gasp is choked from Lovino's throat, and Gilbert's skin crawls. Right. How could he have forgotten. Suddenly, his muscles tense up, coiling tightly in preparation to either fight or to flee, whichever is most convenient. He expects a litany of crazed, accusatory insults, already priming himself for the usual bombardment: 'Nazi' this, 'Disgusting' that, 'How could you, you monster' and blah, blah, blah. He's heard it all before. Not that it hurts any less.

He is paralyzed then, when instead, there are only warm fingertips on his back, tracing the solid, unyielding arms of the swastika inked between his bony shoulder blades.

There's a quiver in the air, the rigidity gone from Lovino's voice, stolen out from under him when he asks, "Why?" It's nothing more than a grainy, ineffectual whisper, yet it worms itself into Gilbert's ears, pinning him down with its clear, concise agony. The pain in that one word feels too fresh.

The only thing Gilbert can do is shrug against the mattress. "Because at the time," he confesses, voice deadpan, "it's what they wanted – the people, that is." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lovino cross himself – funny, the circumstances being what they are. "They didn't know," he mutters into the pillow beneath him, damp with sweat. "They didn't know because it was all such a fucking secret. Please," he begs, locking Lovino's brown eyes with his own, "you know how it is."

And yes, in a way, he does know. Briefly, Lovino's mind flits to crimes within his beloved Church, to the sacrilege and the lies and the laundering. Thieves and cheats and hypocrites, surrounding themselves with good men – men of the cloth; tolerant men, who know the difference between God's work and God's will. Grudgingly, he nods in ascent, pouting – yeah, he knows how it is.

"You still gonna' fuck me?" Gilbert asks, unsure of his footing in his own bed.

Lovino doesn't have to think about it for very long. "Yeah. But, on your back."

Gilbert complies, but not without a nasty simper. "What's the matter?" he asks. "Can't handle the truth? Does my past make you go limp?"

And _Jesus_, Lovino smacks the hell out of him for that one, all hard knuckles that could shatter a mortal cheekbone. "No," he tells him through clenched teeth, assuming a frightening sweetness. "It's just, if I have to look at _that_ the whole time," he grabs Gilbert's jaw and squeezes, hard, "I might break you."

He'd never admit it – not in ten thousand years – but this Lovino scares him. As arousing as he is, he scares him nearly to death, because deep down, Gilbert knows he has every right to punish him. He got off relatively easy, as far as the Italies were concerned – his time at Ivan's house notwithstanding. Where Ludwig had suffered quite a falling-out with Feliciano for a while there, not to mention the disastrous manner in which the Allies had carved him up after the Fall, Gilbert had been quietly taken away, tucked and hidden from the world,looked upon as a victim of propaganda.

Please. He'd been willing, at the time.

_Damn it_, he thinks, for tears are welling in the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away, rejecting them and all that they represent.

But Lovino wipes them away. "There," he says, positioning himself between Gilbert's parted thighs. "You've got some fucking remorse. That's alright." He leans down and Gilbert can feel Lovino's cock brushing his entrance; his entire body stiffens. "I'll take good care of you." There's the scrape of the bedside drawer being jerked open and he knows that Lovino doesn't _have_ to lube him, he's only being kind.

But not _so_ kind. Turning the bottle over, Lovino pours a healthy amount over Gilbert's hardening cock, between his legs so that it drips down. He uses his fingers to guide it where it needs to go, but he doesn't ever slip one inside, not even teasingly. This leaves Gilbert confused, until he cries out, eyes squeezed shut because Lovino didn't even prep him and now he's so fucking _full_, god_damn_. And after that, he tries to say something, shouting disjointed pieces of Lovino's name, grasping for his attention, but he's suffocated with hot, sloppy kisses – angry, almost, but not quite malicious.

"Shut the fuck up," Lovino manages between clacking teeth and insistent tongues. "I don't want to hear it."

So Gilbert shuts the fuck up and loses himself, fingers wrapped in a vise grip around the bars of the headboard, knuckles white and straining, jagged, bitten nails scrabbling for nonexistent purchase. His legs cramp up a bit, heels digging into the small of Lovino's back, pushing him in deeper, exacerbating the pain, though not as much as the pleasure. A few more tears congregate on Gilbert's ashen, wispy lashes, and these are allowed to trickle down his cheeks.

With one hand, Lovino braces himself against cold metal; with the other, he reaches down between them and begins jerking Gilbert's cock, reveling in its size and slickness. The noise this makes, coupled with the feverish panting and moaning beneath him is like music to his tired ears.

"How's it feel the other way around, huh?" he asks ambiguously.

Wisely, Gilbert chooses to ignore the jab and answers obviously. "Good, Lovino – _so good_, _don't stop_! _Scheiße, hör nicht auf_!"

And Lovino looks very pleased with himself, having unraveled the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt this far, and he intends on unraveling him still more. Leaning back on his knees, he pries Gilbert's legs from around his waist and hoists them onto his shoulders, dragging Gilbert down the bed. He pounds into him, hard and relentless, at an unforgiving pace, but no complaint is given. In fact, if the slack in his jaw or the blotchy red in his cheeks is any kind of indication, Gilbert is thoroughly enjoying himself. But Lovino needs more fodder than that. Taking an ankle in each hand, he spreads those pale, muscular legs even further, earning a pleasured mewl from Gilbert as he slams forward, then stops completely. Instead of thrusting then, Lovino begins a sultry rotation of his hips, moving round and round _inside_ the Prussian, driving him absolutely crazy.

"C'_mon_," Gilbert howls, feral, impatient. "Fuck me!"

Lovino snorts, but smirks down at him before pulling almost all the way out and then thrusting violently forward. He leans in and swallows the subsequent scream, kissing greedily, accepting all that Gilbert is willing to give him and prepared to take whatever's left besides. Lovino groans into Gilbert's mouth, hungry and wanton, for Gilbert is perhaps one of the best kissers he's ever known. Lips meet and mash and give way under teeth – whose is unimportant; tongues slide against one another, wetting teeth and exploring palates, committing ridges and bumps to memory.

In a sudden act of intimacy, Gilbert wraps his slender arms around Lovino's neck, lovingly pulling him unbearably close when he feels just how full he is, feels Lovino's cock ramming against his prostate. Because Lovino doesn't brush, he rams.

"Mmmm, _Prußen_," moans Lovino, and later, after the fact, he will vehemently deny that German ever defiled his lips.

But for now, it's enough to push Gilbert far, far over the edge, and Lovino basks in the pleasure of Gilbert cumming – _again_ – harder this time, if that's even possible. He loves the way it splashes, searing across his stomach in erratic bursts, the way Gilbert yells in time with himself. But Lovino still isn't there yet. He straightens up again, moving the spent German as he sees fit, delighting in the color that's risen on his cheeks.

Finally, Gilbert blinks up at him, slack-jawed and frayed. "L-Lovino," he manages, voice shredded and raw. "Cum, cum for me, Lovino. Cum _in_ me, _please_." And those, being words not often heard from Gilbert's mouth, especially not so soft and inviting, drag Lovino into orgasm. He rides it out, hard and spasmodic, tossing his head back and letting loose just the longest, most savage moan Gilbert has ever heard. His eyes widen while he watches, body clenching around Lovino, accepting how he fills him.

And there is just so much.

By the time Lovino's done, he's collapsed beside Gilbert, just shy of his chest, nestled in the crook of a pale arm. One of his own tired arms – olive, in comparison – drapes limply over Gilbert, who nuzzles him, listening to the labored sounds of Lovino's breathing as it gradually declines into a steady rhythm once more. He savors the warm gusts of air that smooth over his skin, the sheen of condensation collecting inside the hinge of his elbow.

He's about to say how good it was, when something catches his eye. It's difficult to make out in the diminished light of so few candles, but it's definitely there: an elaborate little crucifix, tattooed vertically along the inside of Lovino's soft wrist. Inscribed, above and below, in exquisite, languid, _tiny_ letters, are the words, 'C_orreggi gli errori._'

Gilbert stares. And stares. And stares some more. When his voice and brain come back to him, he reads aloud, "Right the wrongs."

"Huh?" Lovino turns his head, facing him with a bewildered expression, face sweaty and eyes unfocused.

"When'd you get this?" Gilbert inquires, noninvasive, just sliding the pad of his thumb over the intricate little masterpiece.

It takes Lovino a moment to really understand what's going on, what's being asked of him, but eventually he frowns, loosely, dithering before answering. "Not long after..." he trails off, nodding at Gilbert, and somehow, he knows – he just _knows_. Shivers shoot down his spine, and he's certain that goosebumps have risen across his skin, enlivening the atrocity on his back. Lovino snorts. "You know how it is," he echoes from before.

Except this time, Prussia can't say that he does. He's fairly sure Lovino knows this, too. _Oh well_, he thinks. _I deserved that_. Taking Lovino's wrist in his hand, he examines the crucifix more closely. If he squints hard enough, he thinks he can see a minuscule crown of thorns, which brings back more than a few memories.

"It's pretty," he decides, and it's the most appropriate thing he can come up with in his condition.

"_Pretty_?" Lovino scoffs, turning entirely onto his side so that he can glare properly at Gilbert. "Are you so thoroughly fucked that you can't recognize great art when it's right in front of your fucking face?"

And for some unfathomable reason, this makes Gilbert laugh, and Lovino doesn't have the steel in him to protest. Instead, they lie together for a while longer, not quite embraced, yet not disentangled either. And when Gilbert falls asleep, it is with Lovino's wrist folded gently into his hand, fingers wrapped loosely around those vines of inky truth, as not for the first time, Lovino has righted one of Gilbert's greatest wrongs.

* * *

><p>Translation notes:<p>

__V__oglio solo mangiarti__, bastardo; __I just want to eat you up, you bastard.

__Scheiße, hör nicht auf_; _Shit, don't stop!

A/n: As usual, a shameless Kink Meme de-anon. Hope you enjoyed :)


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